Saving people, hunting things — the life Sam rejected since he was strewn unfairly into it, wrapped into horrors an infant should never witness. The life he sacrificed everything to leave, abandoning all that he had; while his possessions had been minimal, mere scraps of thieved gifts and stolen trinkets, nothing stung like leaving Dean behind. But he deemed it right. Dean’s life was hunting, Sam never conformed to their father’s soldier crusade, nothing but a means to an end.

He found his escape; Stanford. Despite gaping holes in his school history, courtesy of endless jumping from town to town, remarkable test scores were enough to seamlessly buy his slot in.

For the first time in 18 dreadful and massacre-filled years, he felt normal. He flew through classes with undeniable ease, managing a close-knit group of friends and even landing a date, three years strong with the promise of infinitely more time — an unlikely notion as no love of Sam’s was secured from the brutality of what lurks in the dark, unsuspecting prey made easy targets in the eyes of the things he once hunted.

Life was normal. The very thing he’d ached for years prior. But hunting seemed embroidered into his essence, a deep-seated itch that could never be fully scratched, only sufficing with momentary reprieves. News stories, whispers amongst students in his classes. Word spread faster than the Gospel, every muscle twitching with the taunting reminder of what he should do, what he used to do. Talk of missing persons, likely some cut and dry case he assumed some other hunter would eventually stumble upon. Case after case racked up, more and more bodies "vanished".

And after years of suppressing that craving, he inevitably relapsed, disappearing nearly every night consecutively in a week, using any spare moment he could to do what he did best — save people, kill monsters.

Unfortunately, he was horribly oblivious to how his persistent flees could arouse suspicion, sneaking out of the bed he shared with you, slipping away every night without a word, only to come back looking utterly spent in the mornings. In your eyes, you were damn certain he was cheating on you. Reasonably, what average person would suspect someone was monster hunting before suspecting them of cheating?

After finally clearing the case, just some Woman in White ghost terrorizing unfaithful men (ironic, isn’t it?), he returned to your shared apartment, tiredly trudging over to you as you paced the living room. His hands delicately landed on your waist, significantly more callouses corrupting his palms than a week prior. He stopped your anxious pacing, wrapping his arms delicately around you from behind, tucking his face in your neck, breathing in what now smelt like home to him.

"What’s the matter, angel?" he asked softly, his palm gently rubbing up and down your side, repeating the soothing pattern to comfort both you and himself, basking in the solace merely your presence could supply.